


Roll Back Down To The Warm Soft Ground (Dog and Butterfly Remix)

by helens78



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Morning After, Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things have never been easy between Benton and Meg, and the morning after is no exception.  A shared breakfast of muffins might help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roll Back Down To The Warm Soft Ground (Dog and Butterfly Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wintercreek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Makes the beautiful world (in the morning)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369) by [wintercreek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/pseuds/wintercreek). 



> Thanks to the usual suspect for the beta work! The title comes from "Dog And Butterfly", by Ann and Nancy Wilson and Sue Ennis.
> 
> Thanks to wintercreek for letting me tinker with her story! It gave me a chance to try a new pairing, and I have a very big soft spot for Fraser/Thatcher, so I really enjoyed writing this. :)

There's a shift in the bed behind him. Benton's curled on his side, someone else's warm bare skin pressed up along the length of his back, and now that warmth is going.

He keeps his eyes closed. He's been awake for twenty minutes now, in this bed that isn't his, in this apartment that belongs to Margaret... _Inspector_... Meg. They spent the night together--_together_, not just sharing sleeping quarters for warmth and survival or even friendship--and he still can't figure out what he should call her.

She pulls away from him, and he shifts slightly, then sets himself back to breathing deep and long. He can sense her fingertips near his temple, how close she comes to stroking her fingers through his hair. The contact doesn't happen; instead, she slips out of bed.

He keeps still and silent as she dresses in the dark. It's the coward's way of dealing with this, but Benton has never claimed to be brave when it comes to relationships. After the front door quietly clicks shut, he sits up and rests his head in his hands. He can smell her all over himself, all over this room; he can smell both of them. He knew her scent before, the one he tried to identify with classic, feminine perfumes, but now he's intimately familiar with how Meg smells under a variety of circumstances, and if she truly reminded him of Escada, he'd blush every time he walked past a perfume counter from here on out.

Meg. He tries the name on again, in his head. Last night, yes, it was Meg; he doesn't think he fumbled his words badly enough to call her _Inspector_ while he was making love to her. Tomorrow morning they'll be at the Consulate, and she'll be Inspector Thatcher again, _sir_ again. He can face that. He can live with that.

It would help if he knew what he was meant to do here. Get up and shower? It would seem presumptuous to use her shower and her towels without an invitation. Stay as he is, with the leftover earthy scent of sex clinging to him? God, he can smell her arousal covering his lips and his chin, still; spicy, woodsy, so uniquely and beautifully _her_ that his body's aching for her before he can think to calm down. He won't be able to talk to her like this, if she even wants to talk at all. Invitation or no, he'd better wash his face, at least, his hands, and then maybe she'll be back and he'll figure out what he's--what _they're_ supposed to do.

Her soap washes away most of the traces of last night and leaves his skin feeling surprisingly soft. Once he's dried his hands and face and carefully folded her towel and replaced it on the rod, he goes looking for his clothes.

It's strange to be collecting his clothing off the floor of an unfamiliar apartment; he doesn't know how other people do this so casually, with such frequency. It doesn't bother him so much to be putting on yesterday's clothes--he's spent any number of trips into the wilderness re-wearing things and not minding--but there's a sense of guilt involved with all this, as if he's somewhere he shouldn't be, after doing something he shouldn't have done.

He's all but made up his mind to leave when he hears her footsteps in the hall. The door opens again, and she calls out: "Over here." As he heads out to the foyer to meet her, she continues, "I got breakfast."

He helps her with the cups--a coffee for herself, a tea for him. There's a bag, too, which she takes to the smaller table in her kitchen, the breakfast nook. She glances over at the window, and he looks to her for permission before opening it and letting in some fresh air.

Back at the table, Meg's gathered plates and opened the bag. She arranges an assortment of muffins on a plate between them: banana walnut, cranberry-orange, almond poppyseed, chocolate chip. They reach out in unison, but when Benton realizes Meg's reaching for the cranberry-orange muffin, he takes the banana walnut one instead.

He thinks of things to say and dismisses them as they have breakfast. _Did you have a good evening?_ seems crass; he doesn't have to ask what she thought of the evening, of the sex. He remembers her enveloping warmth, the breathless urgency of her whispers, how she looked at him when they were both damp with sweat and barely able to keep their eyes open--he fumbles with his muffin, walnuts dropping off as he breaks off bite-sized pieces and eats without really tasting.

Meg reaches out, and for a moment he thinks she's going to touch him, but she doesn't. She's after his walnuts, apparently. She gives him a quick look, eyebrows raised, and he nods assent; she eats a few of the lost walnuts and then tears off a bite of her muffin in trade.

His hands are full--and sticky with muffin crumbs--and he isn't entirely sure what she plans to do, but as her hand draws nearer, he opens his mouth for her. She smiles, even laughs quietly as she feeds him, and as his lips graze her fingertips, he thinks about tasting her all over again.

He drops the muffin after all, and heedless of whether he's getting her hands sticky, he takes her hands in his. She holds still, very still, and the smile on her face turns serious as he bends his face down and lays kisses across the palms of her hands. She rubs her fingers gently against his stubble; she's never seen him anything but clean-shaven. She's _exploring_ him. He has to close his eyes against that thought; he _will_ end up blushing over breakfast if he thinks about it too hard. He lets her go and sits up again, looking down at the table for a napkin.

"I--thank you," she says softly.

He looks back up at her. He wonders what on earth she could possibly be thanking him for. Sharing breakfast? Sharing last night? Should he tell her _you're welcome?_

She clears her throat, and he looks up at her. "I wondered," she says quietly, "if you'd--possibly--perhaps we could--"

It's always comforting not to be the only one in these conversations who fumbles for words, he thinks. He waits it out.

"--see one another again," she finishes, her spine straight, shoulders back. He can almost see her suit, her red serge, even, the professionalism lining her words, and he sits up straight, too.

"I'll see you at the--" he begins, but the low thrum of disappointment in the pit of his stomach stops him, and the slight break in her expression--the way her jaw tightens and she swallows--makes him rethink his words. He can't always tell what she's thinking, but he knows what it is to wear his role like a mask. Like armor.

"Yes," he says, instead. "Yes, I'd like that."

_-end-_


End file.
